


Bump

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s08e21 The Great Escapist, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 19:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>8.21 coda. <i>"Dean almost hits him with the car."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Bump

Dean almost hits him with the car.

That’s all he can think of, when Castiel shows up, illuminated by the headlights, beaten and bloody and then leaking his insides all over the car’s upholstery, eyes squeezed painfully shut.

There had been a brief, spiralling moment where his foot had flirted with the accelerator; where he’d debated just spurring himself on, just driving  _forward,_ past Castiel;  _through him,_ if needs be – but he doesn’t. He can’t.

Instead, he gets out of the car, and he and Sam gather the angel into their arms, and they hoist him into the back seat. Dean takes the wheel; Sam sits in the back, Castiel’s head in his lap, hand pressed worriedly against his shoulder.

Getting him inside is a fumble; they trip and bump their way down the stairs, the angel’s head lolling mindlessly against Dean’s chest as they carry him between them. He’s a dead weight but it doesn’t even really register with Dean until they’ve got him into bed; until they’ve stripped the sodden, bloody shirt from his shoulders and he lies there, pale, eyes shut and brow creased with pain. He’s not awake. Dean’s words are almost all gone.

“The fuck is he even doing here?” he mutters, desperately, and it comes out sad, not angry. He doesn’t even know how he feels, until he says it. Sam looks at him and he’s just about as pale as the body in the bed; eyes rimmed red, gaze blurry, whatever he says about ‘feeling better’.

Sam’s mouth tightens. “Guess he needed us.” He says, softly, and the echo is close enough, for Dean, that the words sting.

_I need you._

Then radio silence, just like always; Castiel is the sea and Dean is just a body on the shore, too far back to ever really receive him, just close enough to smell the salt. Close enough to see him ebb in and out; close enough to get caught full in the face when the tsunami finally rises; when it dashes him against the rocks. He still keeps trying to swim.

 It doesn’t even make  _sense._

For three straight days, Castiel leaks against his pillows, through his bandages, and he sleeps. His face never smooths out; stays crumpled as if bracing for impact, eyebrows knit together. He  _dreams,_ Dean’s pretty sure; he mumbles helpless, formless words into the air above him. The noise makes Dean’s chest clench in horror.

On the third day – as is traditional – Castiel rises. Dean’s been avoiding him – going in to change his bandages, leaving to try to gather himself. He can’t stand this; the  _waiting,_ the  _questions._ He feels perpetually poised over Castiel; foot nudging the pedal, hands paused to throttle him, to hold him, to push him away.

He doesn’t know how he  _feels,_ anymore – doesn’t know if he’s glad or heartbroken that Castiel is still alive. He doesn’t know if he can take it anymore; the two of them. Together. Apart. He doesn’t know if he can live and  _need him,_ like this, any more.

And then Castiel cracks his eyes open, and everything changes.

The first thing he does when he wakes up is cough – wince. He pulls himself up in the bed, and looks at Dean, sitting at his side.

“Hello, Dean.” He says quietly, playfully, his voice soft and low. Dean’s never seen him so tentative.

Maybe he’s sick. Maybe he’s sick like Sam was, with Ruby; addicted to him,  _grounded_ by him, unable to know any better. He thinks sometimes he’s a fucking idiot to believe in Cas, after all they’ve done to one another; other times he thinks he’d be a fucking idiot not to.

But Castiel, asleep, was so easy to disbelieve. It was so easy to compartmentalise him; so easy, so  _easy_ for Dean to tell himself he was Bad News; better to get out, better to get _gone,_ lest you end up dead.

Awake – with a flourish, as if he’d taken a nap, not nursed a massive wound - he is  _Cas._

Just  _Cas._

And Dean’s arms, though he’s loath to admit it, are empty without him. 


End file.
